The boy took notice of the two newcomers because of the direction from where they were being escorted. Every other human had been brought along the well-worn paths leading from the North and the South. One of the newcomers was clearly wounded; an arm covered in blood, the other man helping him to walk. The boy unconsciously gritted his teeth and clenched his rail thin stomach tight as he thought about the wounded man’s future. He was vaguely aware that his back hurt and that his hands were painfully chapped from dirt pulling the moisture out of his skin, but it was all offset by the analgesic that was being provided to his mind. He wore a homemade wide brimmed straw hat that a woman from Peru had shown him how to weave. He kept a large banana leaf strapped to his back to ward off the sun where his own clothes, reduced to rags in the moist tropical weather, offered little cover. The corn that he was picking was for cattle, a vast herd of which occupied a plain over a nearby hill where great clouds of dust rose into the air. These ears were just as good as the ones in the other fields, the ones tended to by the actual Nicaraguans and Costa Ricans, but because these were picked by the people like him, from Away, they were not considered fit for consumption by the Chosen. The corn in his basket was for the cattle and the people who picked it.
He knew better than to stare. To be seen as not working, watching the newcomers, was to be in for trouble. Nevertheless, the unusualness of these two men coming in from the West had all the pickers stealing glances. The five overseers who sat comfortably in the shade, their minds connected not just with each other but with The Place as a whole, took this in, weighed the amount of transgression and as one made the decision to remove some of the mental anesthetic they were applying to the pickers, exchanging it for the opposite, an increased awareness of their general pain.
Since swimming across the freezing Hudson to the mental call of the Chosen, the boy had not known the freedom of his own mind. Always they were with him, even in his dreams. There had been times when he had wished for death to take him, to free him from their grasp, but always they knew of this and when his feelings leaked through the tight sieve that he tried to maintain around his most private thoughts, they simply increased the amount of pleasure he could feel. It was like when he was eight and had badly broken his leg in a fall from a tree. The drugs that the doctors gave him made him feel warm and happy. Everyone at The Place, which was how this land was referred to, was made to feel pleasure over pain. Most embraced it as the only way to tolerate the intolerable. The boy despised it. Fought it. Paid for the fight. He was nearly thirteen, his body going through the change, his strength surprising him, but when he fought too hard or, as in this moment, paused ever so slightly to observe the strangers walking by, the pain made him feel very old and frail. The group of people who were bent over in the field moaned nearly as one. One hundred corn pickers give or take, allowed to feel their pain and then some.
As the boy’s focus was pulled from his task by increasing discomfort, his eyes fell on a group of young Chosen in the next field. They were maybe three years old, no more than four, and they skittered about with feline grace and pleasure while chasing down and teasing a terrified woman from Colorado. She was free to move at her own will and feel whatever she might feel. It was a game that was played by the young and the old alike: A human set free and hunted. Everyone ran. No one escaped. The boy couldn’t quite peel his eyes away from the spectacle. The woman was probably in her thirties and her meager clothing was torn. What was once white cotton had long turned brown from sweat and dirt. Her unkempt blond hair had turned to ragged dreadlocks and it bobbed against her shoulders as she ran and screamed. One Chosen in particular laughed a great hearty laugh, reaching out to smack her legs out from under her. The woman fell hard in the dust and the dead corn stalks, but just as quickly she rose to run again. Finally, she was tripped and the boy saw her ankle twist badly. She tried to stand only to collapse in terror, pain and frustration. The Chosen children stopped and stared at her with wide smiles, their chests barely heaving with the effort of the hunt. Then the boy, and anyone who might be viewing the spectacle, heard the oft repeated mantra in his head, ARTHUR SAYS EAT. ARTHUR SAYS EAT. The woman spat dirt on the ground and glared at her tormentors with hatred. “Fuck you!” The boy was surprised to hear English. There were some English speakers, he was sure, but since no one was allowed to speak, he was rarely certain. The youngest Chosen, a girl, looked quickly at her companions and then leapt on the woman, plunging her teeth into the screaming woman’s neck. The rest of the pack joined in, feasting on the blond lady with the American accent even as her legs and arms continued to jerk and spasm.
Dean had directed everyone to take refuge in the hardened command center on the Lyndon Johnson. From that vantage point they could scan the shore and talk amongst themselves without helmets. To that end, there were, to Dean’s regret, plenty of extra helmets to pass onto the Shoremen. The moment that the surviving Shoremen were out of sight from any Puck and able to get their wits about them, an unspoken agreement had been made between the two parties: Enough was enough. The schizophrenic nature of the relationship had to end. They would have each other’s backs. Nevertheless, as they finished gathering in the command center, Plimpton puffed up his chest and said, “Welcome. Please enjoy our hospitality, but I’d request that you not touch anything.”
Dean looked at the man as though he was a babbling idiot and smiled with what he hoped looked like sympathy. “We are all in a bit of shock.”
Plimpton ignored this and pointed at the pile of helmets that the Northerners had brought with them, “So these shield you from their... abilities?”
It was Hernandez who chose to answer. As far as she was concerned, this was purely a military situation. “They also give the wearer a three-sixty display that can pan and zoom to any point that the wearer is concentrating on. Communications are to individuals and or the group as a whole. With our guns they also act as a targeting system.” She glanced at Stewart, suddenly not sure if she should continue. He nodded okay. She said, “Sergeant Green can instruct you on their use.”
Thompson had a question but Plimpton barged ahead. “The way I see it, we must find another working boat. Obviously, the land is offlim -”
Dean held up a hand and said, “Dean. Captain Stewart Dean. And you are?”
Plimpton let a flicker of irritation cross his face. “Councilman Niles Plimpton. There’s no time to waste. We know these creatures well and have developed tactics to deal with them. Now as I was saying -”
Dean held up a hand again. “Slow down, Councilman. I assume that you are the captain of this crew?” Plimpton’s eyes flicked toward Thompson, which was enough for Dean to turn to the man. “And you are?”
“Thompson. Major William. Army.”
“U.S. Army?” asked Hernandez.
“Formerly. Army of the Shore.” He glanced at Plimpton who appeared to be ready to uncork and said, “As the councilman was saying, we have tactics for dealing with the devils, but they primarily require the use of one of our Sentinel drones. We’re fresh out.”
Wen Blakely broke in. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Can we address the fucking elephant in the room? Pardon my French. There is a whole society of American survivors living south of us that considers itself a new country and we don’t know about it.”
Plimpton smiled with self-congratulation. “Only recently have we considered letting you know.”
Wen looked at Dean. “You hearing that?”
Dean shrugged saying, “You already said, Wen. Everyone in America has been hiding in Virtu.” He turned to the fat reverend while pointing a thumb at Plimpton and Thompson. “So political, military, you’re the clergy?”
“In effect,” smiled the Vicar Wentworth. “We have a mandate of sorts to spread the Word.” He pointed to a screen monitoring the jungle. “If we can save those souls then our mission is a success.”
Plimpton sighed and placed himself partially in front of the vicar. “Getting back to the situa
tion at hand. Action is what we need. Bold action. Finding another boat is the only option. I suggest that we -”
Dean held up a finger inches from the councilman’s mouth. “You are not in charge. Let that settle for a sec while I say it again. You are not in charge.” Plimpton flushed but stayed still as the captain casually rested his hand on his holstered pistol. While Dean smiled for the whole room, the shear magnitude of the recent loss of life, mixed with what they faced ashore, was eating his guts away, but he didn’t show it. He’d seen and been through worse or so he told himself. He let his training and instincts take the lead. “Now. While I don’t totally disagree with Niles here, we need to consider that those mined waters are pretty much impenetrable to any large boat. Certainly anything that might get us all home. I think we proved that well enough. Our numbers are such that I shouldn’t have to reiterate that we need to let go of our distrust and work together.” His eyes lingered for a moment on Brandy, who looked both frightened and guilty. He offered her a warm and forgiving smile and a tear sprung to the girl’s eye. Dean had to look away to keep his hibernating paternal heart from awakening. He despised the way that war touched children the most; his own life a series of regrets over such things.
“Agreed,” said Thompson, much to Plimpton’s annoyance.
Deacon Hoeg pointed at the monitor. “I don’t think we are going to have time to learn much.”
As Plimpton followed the man’s finger, it occurred to him that he had never heard him speak. Then he focused on the screen that showed the destroyer’s bow view. Hundreds of the devils were coming out of the jungle and standing at the shore, dozens more gliding toward them on assorted small open boats. Humans seemed to be doing the rowing.
On the ruined Delfshaven, Hansel and Gretel were so swept up in the sudden universal connection that they didn’t even notice Eliza walk to the sunken bow and step off into the water. Though she swam like someone possessed, she was fully aware of her surroundings and her loss of self-control. She had used every trick that she had learned to rid herself of the puck’s mental invasion, but it was as if half her mind had crossed into a separate universe filled with warm and comforting hands, stroking her, caressing her, inside and out. There were no words in her head, but there was a communication of sorts, repeated over and over: COME, COME, COME. She had reached out to the children, grabbing at their arms, shaking them to break the spell. “Save me!” she cried with her last words, but they were lost in some type of reverie, her existence at least temporarily forgotten. As her mind slowly succumbed, it was like being enveloped into a thick layer of warm loving foam. She could see the path of her march to the bow, feel the water around her and happily, willingly, she swam with strength, thrilled by each delicious stroke that took her closer to them, the Chosen. The pain of existence was simply erased. Happiness filled her up in every way and she found herself spitting out water as she laughed at the wonder, the pure pleasure of the entirety, the whole, the omnitude of it. Fear disappeared from her understanding of the universe. The smiling faces that greeted her from passing boats and on the land brought her heart to near bursting. Those beautiful sharp white teeth so full in their mouths. The humans who were among the Chosen barely registered as a blip. They were but a dim portion of the whole where she could feel some of their pleasure as well, but somehow it felt artificial, not what she was feeling at all. In a very far away place she heard a voice tell her that this wasn’t real; that she was being fooled, that the humans on the boats, pulling the oars, driving the paddles were, like her, under a spell, but that voice was discovered and enveloped in the warm foam too. And this made her even happier, thrilled to let the doubt fall away. She strode ashore; only slightly aware of the weight of the water leaving her clothes, and gleefully entered their embrace. She was home. This was everything.
Dean had spotted Eliza swimming past the oncoming boats and felt his fast moving mind freeze with the shock of it. His voice locked up in his throat. His wordless gape caused the panic filled room to go silent. Plimpton held up a helmet, waiting for direction.
Dean ran out the door and raced down a hallway. He had vague memories of this type of boat and raged at himself as he struggled to find an exit forward, a way to get to the bow. He should have gone out the way he had come in. One door led to more rooms, the corridor taking an unexpected turn. He was running through a foot of water, the bow lower than the stern. He vaguely felt Sanders running to his right and barking out, “We’ll get her, Cap!” Thompson was suddenly there too, pulling the chinstrap on his helmet tight. He guided Dean’s elbow toward a set of stairs. “This way!”
They burst through a door and ran out on the deck. The boats were all around them. Dean turned the loudspeaker on his helmet and yelled, “Eliza! Come back! Elizaandra Sherr! Doctor Sherr!” They watched her walk ashore and with pucks surrounding her, disappear into the forest. A boat full of pucks bumped against the bow and the creatures began to leap aboard. All three men opened up with their rifles and within seconds slaughtered not just the pucks but also the humans who were inevitably in the path of random bullets. The rest of the crew and the Shoremen burst out the door, leaving only the vicar and Brandy inside. Without the need for further orders, they lay waste to the boats around them. Great spouts of splinters, blood and flesh filled the air and the sea. The pucks on shore ran back into the woods abandoning their fellows on the water. As the spell suddenly broke, the humans who had avoided the fire, dove overboard, most of them swimming toward the Lyndon Johnson. Either the safety of the boat or death by bullet was salvation.
For a heartbeat, Eliza was herself again. The effect was instantaneous: One moment she was enveloped in love and in the next she became fully aware of her dire circumstances. In that split second she turned to run, only to be wrapped again in the Chosen embrace, the moment forgotten, her purpose to enjoy and to serve.
Maggie Tender, Gallagher and Collins were firing indiscriminately into the water as the freed humans swam toward them. Dean had gained a moderate understanding of the situation and yelled for everyone to direct their fire at the pucks only. The shooting decreased from a general roar to the slow pop of selected and aimed shots. After another minute, the jungle was just the jungle again and the water a heap of floating carnage and debris mixed with the cries of terrified and wounded people.
The clerics were the first to jump into action, waving at the swimming people to come to the wrecked and submerged bow where they could climb aboard. Many were wounded and cried out for help. Deacon Jones began to unbuckle his helmet, preparing himself to dive in; a woman pleading to him while trying to keep a teenage boy’s unconscious head above water. Dean reached out and stopped the pastor. “Don’t. Don’t remove your helmet.” The underbrush in the distance was alive with movement. There were no obvious targets, but he aimed and fired anyway.
Suddenly the people in the water stopped swimming and screaming and crying in fear and pain. As one, they simply dipped their faces into the water and began to drown.
It was stunning for the people on the boat. The people in the water appeared to choose to drown. Jones took his hands off his still buckled helmet and slowly looked to the sky. “NO!” he pleaded while dropping to his knees and silently begging for his Lord’s intervention.
Desperate to take action, Dean and some others continued firing into the woods, but to no avail. The people in the bay convulsed and jerked, their drowning body’s fighting against what their minds were forcing them to do. The water churned as if a great school of fish where being decimated by a larger school of ravenous hunters. After a minute or so it was over. As many as sixty people lay floating in peace as the dissipating waves of their struggle lapped against the boats and the distant shore. The jungle was also still and the shooters took their fingers off their triggers.
Aboard the Delfshaven, Gretel and Hansel became aware of their surroundings, the look of reverie falling from their faces faster than the receding flush that left their pale skin whiter. M
other was gone. Eliza was gone. “Eliza?” barked Gretel.
“Mother?” begged Hansel.
She is with them.
She is not safe.
We must help her.
We must help her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Interogation
It was nightfall. The people had finished their evening meal, washed up and were heading to their assigned sleeping huts. The boy was walking to his hut along with other boys his age, all wanting to get inside and lay down before sleep was forced upon them. When the sun fell below the trees, all of the people were made to retire. Not getting back to one’s sleeping mat could result in a very uncomfortable night, or worse: being victim to prowling animals and insects or worse. Sleep was perhaps a misnomer; mass paralysis was a more apt description. A person who didn’t make it to his hut and his raised sleeping mat, and was instead forced to lie down on the jungle floor, might wake to find himself being devoured and not being able to do a thing about it. Despite this, the boy paused at his door as he saw the party that had gone out that morning making its return. There was a new woman amongst the few surviving people who were with the Chosen. Images of the day’s events were broadcast to everyone’s minds, people and Chosen, the final part being the forced drowning and the resulting dismay of the new people on the big warship. The new woman’s mind seemed to stand out among the returning people. She had something that he had never felt from a person. She could, to a certain degree, communicate like the Chosen. Her thoughts were bleeding through the veil that was always present - the grasp of which held them all. The woman was sending out a powerful thought, pleading. She sensed what the colony was; feeling and reflecting the immense amount of dark energy that filled the place. Her tone was stern, parental - DON’T COME. DON’T COME. This thought was directed to two others who were not part of the collective. It was just the barest filament of a thought but as the boy watched the woman walk past, it was unmistakable; the two others were responding, MOTHER, MOTHER.
Children Of Fiends: Book 2 of the Of Sudden Origin saga Page 25